


014 "Japanese steakhouse"

by wheel_pen



Series: Iron Man AU [14]
Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fish out of Water, My Pepper is different, Naughtiness, Pre-Iron Man, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony gets drunk and sings Madonna songs with some Japanese businessmen, then makes a pass at Pepper, all of which is guaranteed to get the PR department pretty worked up—if not Pepper herself. "Pepper was about as savvy about public behavior as a squid."</p>
            </blockquote>





	014 "Japanese steakhouse"

**Author's Note:**

> 1) My Pepper is very different from canon Pepper. Her personality/origin is very different; to separate her from canon Pepper I've given her a new last name and a different hair color.
> 
> 2) The bad words are censored. That's just how I do things.
> 
> 3) Stories are numbered in the order I wrote them, which isn't necessarily the order in which they occur. At some point I'll post a timeline.
> 
> I wrote this series after the first Iron Man movie came out. It's very AU but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play with these characters.

            I wasn't a movie star or a rock star. For one thing I had more money. For another, I wasn't really famous to the population in general—in business/technology/political circles, yes, but I wasn't usually on the very front covers of the tabloids at the grocery store check-out, unless I happened to be caught _with_ a movie star or a rock star. But I was usually _somewhere_ in the tabloid, so you could also say my fame encompassed those people who actually read the entire gossip rag.

            This was the usual sequence of events when I ended up in a tabloid (assuming no criminal charges were also involved): I would be awakened (or interrupted) early in the morning by a phone call from PR, which would be quite short as I was either otherwise engaged or hungover. If I thought to turn off my phone or break it somehow, I would have several blissful, quiet hours while PR called Pepper to harass her, and she refused to bother me. Eventually, however, I would take the call and someone very high up in that department would tactfully and delicately inquire about the previous evening's activities—did I really yell an obscene phrase across the room, how drunk was I, had I dropped the Senator's daughter off at home or was she currently in my shower, that kind of thing. One thing I wanted to mention was that you only got to _be_ very high up in PR in my company by showing some tact and delicacy in situations like this, because I didn't like being yelled at by subordinates (and isn't that everyone?). Another thing was that PR people weren't like the ones in Legal: they wanted to know every bit of the dirt so they could get to work cleaning it up (as opposed to the lawyers who didn't want you to say anything they might be obligated to tell the authorities later). Someone who could do all these things well was someone I deemed a major asset to the company (considering how often they were needed) and I made sure they were well-compensated for it.

            I think Pepper was kind of a mixed blessing for PR. On the one hand, she had mostly solved the problem of me being chronically late to interviews and ceremonies, or absent entirely, or present but inappropriately dressed or unprepared. That was a huge plus for them. You couldn't imagine the stuff I'd said when I was completely pulling a speech out of my a-s. Personally I found the replays quite witty but not everyone had my refined sense of humor (though the clips were very popular at the company holiday party). That era had pretty much come to an end because Pepper coached me backstage like a four-year-old about to walk down the aisle as a ringbearer. Not to mention dressing me and putting me in the car on time. I still snuck off sometimes, but I had to do it purposefully, all the while knowing that Pepper was going to be waiting for me at the end with a stack of unused color-coded index cards and a narrow gaze. Not so much fun.

            On the other hand, Pepper was about as savvy about public behavior as a squid. The only thing that saved _her_ from utter humiliation was the fact that she was quiet, and also didn't seem to feel humiliation. So if she saw me making out with two women at a party, or even one semi-famous one, or being a p---k about something, or yelling at someone, or breaking furniture, or some other paparazzi-baiting activity, she wouldn't necessarily have thought that perhaps she ought to stop me, shield me, or at least call PR and warn them like some of my previous assistants. Pepper would keep on eating her heaping plate of food and think, "Ooh, that broken mirror is shiny! Can I grab a piece?" or "Good thing I made sure Mr. Stark's suit was stain resistant!" or "Hmm, I wonder what rainbows taste like?" Actually I had no idea what Pepper thought. But I heard from my informants she usually just looked confused when PR chewed her out about it later.

            That was another step in the process: first, deny or downplay to the press; second, find someone else to take the blame if denial and downplaying wasn't working. I wouldn't let them blame Pepper publicly for anything, though. She wasn't my babysitter, after all. Also, I probably wouldn't have listened to her in the heat of the moment anyway, and normally these incidents were no one's fault but my own. I didn't like seeing Pepper bashed by anyone. Or even gently teased. Only _I_ got to make fun of Pepper. Other people could yell at her when I wasn't around, though, because they had to yell at _someone_ and Pepper honestly didn't notice or care. Sometimes I thought there was something wrong with the way her brain processed information—this was a conversation we had one time, after I heard her assuring someone that "Mr. Stark never yells at me."

            Me: "Pepper, I yell at you all the time. Well, okay, not _all_ the time, but sometimes."

            Pepper: "Oh. You do?"

            Me: "Yes, I do."

            Pepper: "Oh. Perhaps next time you yell at me, sir, you could let me know."

            Me: "Yes, I'll do that, Pepper."

            Anyway, the point of this story is the sparkly silver dress, the Japanese steakhouse, and the paparazzi. I was _at_ a Japanese steakhouse with some manufacturing partners, who were in from Japan and wanted to be shown a good time. Pepper was wearing the sparkly silver dress, with matching sparkly silver stilettos, which I had bought for her that day and left draped over her desk because I knew she would love it (and she did, although it kind of hypnotized her if she walked past a mirror). The paparazzi were everywhere as usual, like cockroaches. A fact of life one must watch out for—but boy do they make a satisfying crunch when you stomp on one.

            So the Japanese partners and I had had a few drinks and we were having a great time, despite the fact that they'd forgotten how to speak English and I'd forgotten how to speak Japanese. We just spoke our native languages to each other and it seemed to work out, a real gathering of international harmony and understanding. The steakhouse was very loud and crowded at this point, more like a club with blaring music and lots of people standing around drinking. We held onto our booth with fierce territoriality, although if the interlopers wore miniskirts they were more likely to slip in. Can you see why I got along well with these guys?

            So there were a number of attractive women around, but for some reason I wasn't terribly interested in them that night. They were bland, generic, forgettable. Not that I really intended to remember even the ones I talked to, of course, but there was just no spark with any of them. No sparkle, you might say. No sparkly.

            That was it! I would get Pepper over here. She was probably still around somewhere. I turned my head too quickly looking for her and got a bit dizzy, so I rested for a moment, had more to drink, and resumed my search more cautiously. _Pepper, come sit with me_ , I thought over and over, trying to concentrate (you can imagine how difficult this was). _Pepper. Pepper!_

            Suddenly, a sparkly silver stiletto appeared in front of my face. If I'd moved the wrong way it probably would have taken out an eye. I stared at it for a moment, confused and a little bit frightened, and right around the time I realized there was a foot—a leg—a _nice_ leg—in the shoe, a second one swung into view over the back of the booth.

            Well, when I saw a nice pair of legs that close to me, I didn't mind touching them—I mean, if someone went and put their legs in my face it seemed only fair. So next thing I knew I was reaching up to help the nice legs go wherever they wanted to, which happened to be across my lap, which was what _I_ called a fantastic development. Of course, as you might have guessed, the nice legs were partially attired in a sparkly silver dress which was attached to Pepper.

            "Pepper!" I exclaimed in inebriated delight. "You got my message!"

            "Yes, sir," she agreed, arranging herself expertly on my lap (sitting on someone's lap was not as comfortable as you might have imagined, for either the sitter or the sittee, though on this particular occasion I was a bit numb already so it hardly mattered).

            The sparkle off her dress was a little bit blinding in the rotating lights that had popped up above us, and plus Pepper was _on my lap_ with _her arm around my shoulders_ , and I was also kind of drunk. Then Pepper started speaking in Japanese and things got _really_ disorienting.

            " 'S my ass-ass-assistant," I told one of my fellow businessmen, whose name I had forgotten. I remembered it made me think of a little tiny gadget that fried stuff, so I'd been calling him Fry Guy for the last several rounds. " 'S Pepper. Pepper!"

            Fry Guy nodded and said something appreciative in Japanese. "Oh my G-d, you're totally right!" I enthused in response. "She _does_ look like Heidi Klum!" Well, Pepper _didn't_ , actually, at all. "She is really hot, isn't she?"

            Pepper continued talking to them in Japanese, though I didn't know why she bothered as my comments indicated the general level of intelligence we were dealing with at that point. I snapped my fingers at a waitress, drawing her over. "Another Scotch. And some kinda fruity sweet girly drink for Pepper here." The waitress returned as ordered with a Scotch and something bright pink containing speared chunks of fruit.

            "This is good," Pepper judged, slurping it.

            In the back of my mind—not that my mind was really capable of holding too many divisions at the time—I wondered what Pepper would be like drunk. I was anticipating great things. But as one might have predicted (as _I_ might have predicted, had I been sober), the alcohol didn't seem to have much of an effect on her. Of course it took five more drinks in all colors of the rainbow—and five more Scotches, naturally—for me to begin to figure this out.

            "Aren't you drunk yet?" I demanded, disappointed she wasn't doing something she would regret the next day, like dancing on the table or making out with me.

            "I don't think so," Pepper replied. "How would I know?"

            Ah, she'd asked the expert here. "Well, you see, Pepper," I began authoritatively.

            "Yes, sir?" she prompted after a long pause.

            "What?"

            "You were saying, sir?"

            "Oh, I can't remember. Waitress! Another Scotch."

            "I see." Pepper started to untangle herself from me. "Perhaps we should go home now, sir."

            I grabbed her leg in a sudden panic. I misjudged and my hand slid under her skirt a little, but Pepper didn't seem to mind. "No-no-no, you can't _leave_ , Pepper!" I insisted. "We're not done yet!" I leaned across the table and thumped on it in front of Fry Guy. "Hey! Do you know any Madonna songs?" Look, I didn't really remember much of this, I was just going on the tabloid articles and what Pepper told me later. That meant I wasn't really responsible for anything I did that was merely embarrassing. "You know, 'Material Girl'?" I started singing it for illustration.

            Fry Guy got it immediately but had a different tune in mind. " 'Papa don't preach… I'm in trouble deep…' "

            Yeah, so, me and a table full of drunk Japanese guys went through the entire Madonna catalog, apparently. Why Madonna? It wasn't like I had a secret stash of her CDs or anything. Let's just say I had a feeling her music would cross international boundaries and leave it at that.

            I didn't really remember getting home, either, though I understood we didn't leave the steakhouse until they closed around two AM. Apparently there was no fighting, no puking, and no drunk driving, just a lot of hugging as me and the Japanese partners pledged to be brothers for all time based on our shared love of alcohol and Madonna, then we got into cabs or chauffeured cars and headed off.

            "Nice night, sir?" Happy is reported to have asked, no doubt cheekily.

            "Do you like Madonna, Happy? I really like Madonna. What's your favorite Madonna song? I think I like 'Like a Prayer' best. Remember the video, where she's in a church and the statue of the saint comes to life and she starts making out with him? Don't you think Pepper looks like Madonna? Not now, I mean. Younger. Don't you think Pepper would look hot in those pointy cone bra things? Or, maybe my favorite Madonna song is 'Like a Virgin.' You know that one, right? 'Like a virgin… touched for the very first time…' "

            Apparently when I was drunk I really liked Madonna. Go figure. Did kind of explain why Happy got me her greatest hits CD for Christmas.

            Apparently when I was drunk I also hit on Pepper, more than the usual, I mean. I actually did vaguely remember grabbing her a-s and propositioning her as we stumbled into the house—can't imagine why she didn't take me up on that offer. I mean, what was sexier than a drunken billionaire groping you in the hallway? And when I completely passed out and knocked over furniture on my way to the floor, I happened to know I was d—n near irresistible. Yeah, so I wasn't always proud of myself. What could I say? I thought about jumping Pepper almost every day of the week, it wasn't so surprising I would actually _act_ on that once my judgment was compromised.

            Six AM, the phone rang. "Gur-ung?" I mumbled into it painfully, not entirely certain where or who I was.

            "Mr. Stark? Debbie from PR here. I guess the major tabloids have some photos of you at a restaurant last night and—"

            I hurled the phone to the ground. I didn't have a lot of leverage in my current position in bed, but I thought I heard it snap anyway.

            Ten AM, I staggered out of bed and took a hot shower. Someone had put me in proper sleeping attire, including clean underwear (which is a little TMI, I know, but it was important to _me_ ). I couldn't actually think of anyone I would _want_ doing that—Pepper would be okay I guess, but she could hardly do it physically. She was no bodybuilder, you know? Which left Happy, unless someone had been called. _Eh, what the h—l?_ I shrugged after a moment. Clearly I wasn't all that picky about who saw me naked in other contexts, so no use being embarrassed about this. That was just the sort of _laissez-faire_ attitude I specialized in.

            I got dressed again and crawled downstairs to the kitchen, barely making it to a barstool at the counter before my strength gave out. "Help me," I moaned pitiably to Pepper, who was preparing food nearby.

            "Here's some coffee, sir," she replied, sliding a mug into my hand. "Would you like a straw for it?"

            I pulled the mug across the counter and lifted my head just enough to slurp up some coffee. Then I put my head back down, waiting for the caffeine to circulate through my body.

            "The PR department has been calling this morning, sir," Pepper continued, nibbling on a spoonful of something.

            "What are you eating?" I interrupted.

            "Granola, ice cream, honey, chocolate syrup, marshmallow cream, and raisins, sir," she answered, and my stomach lurched.

            "Well, at least it's got fruit in it," I mumbled, closing my eyes again.

            Pepper waited a moment, then continued with her account. "PR says the gossip websites are reporting you engaged in a drunken sing-along with the Japanese manufacturing partners you met with earlier in the day, sir."

            I giggled a little. "What were we singing? And was I any good?"

            "Songs by Madonna, sir, and I think you should avoid falsetto in the future."

            " _Madonna?!_ " I rubbed my eyes wearily. "Good G-d, couldn't we have sung along to something a little manlier? Like the Stones, maybe?"

            "I'll suggest it next time, sir."

            The Madonna bit was not coming back to me. Occasional other pieces were, though. "D—n, Pepper, how much did _you_ have to drink last night?" I exclaimed, trying to assess her for damages. There didn't appear to be any. "You must've had, like, five, seven, eleven, eight drinks…"

            "I had six, sir," Pepper corrected calmly.

            "And you feel fine," I surmised.

            "Yes, sir." She looked thoughtful as she consumed more of her sugar monstrosity. "I liked the one called a _mudslide_ best. It was creamy."

            "I'll remember that," I promised. _Pepper, mudslide. Pepper, mudslide. Pepper_ —"Ah, s‑‑t," I sighed, suddenly guilty.

            "Sir?"

            Why did I have to remember these things? (Someone else might have asked, why did I have to _do_ these things, but I wasn't that introspective.) I lowered my head and looked up at Pepper with what I hoped was sincere contrition. I mean, I _did_ feel contrite; but since my automatic reaction was to cover it up or make light of it, it was hard to convince others sometimes.

            "I think I kinda made a pass at you last night," I understated cautiously.

            Pepper raised an eyebrow. "I think there was nothing _kinda_ about it, sir," she corrected dryly. "You offered to take me—"

            "Yeah, I know what I said," I assured her uncomfortably. What I _didn't_ know was how she was going to take it.

            "It was very creative, sir," Pepper went on, keeping me hanging, "thought I doubt physically possible…"

            "Well, actually it is, with the proper training," I muttered, "but, er, never mind that. Uh, so, Pepper—" I cleared my throat and straightened up a bit, trying to face it like a man. "I apologize."

            "Okay," said Pepper.

            "Obviously it was very disrespectful on my part, and I—um—I have great respect for your professional skills and—uh—I would not want you to think that _I_ only think of you in a, er, sexual capacity. Because I don't."

            "Okay."

            "And, I mean, the thing is, we have this nice little chemistry thing but I know you've got, like, _issues_ and I don't want you to think that I'm not, er, aware of that and, um, sensitive to it, so…"

            "Okay. Do you want to talk to PR now, sir?"

            I frowned at her. "You're not mad at me?"

            "No, sir." She looked quizzical. "Should I be?"

            "Well, _yeah_ ," I insisted, with some disbelief. "I mean, J---s, Pepper, lawsuits have been filed for less, _way_ less, and G-d, it was really very rude of me and—you're not interested in trying it, are you?" She gave me a look, so I returned to my self-flagellation. "Rude and, uh, you know, disrespectful and, um, awkward and—"

            "Excuse me, sir," Pepper interrupted patiently. "PR _did_ ask me to call as soon as you were functional. Shall I call?"

            "Pepper," I snapped, "I am _trying_ to purge my soul of guilt and shame here, so—"

            Pepper frowned. "Should I get you a bucket, sir?"

            I sighed. "I forgot, _you_ have the emotional depth of a lollipop, so—"

            Pepper stiffened and I knew I'd screwed up again. "There's no need to be _mean_ , sir."

            But at least this screw-up was of my usual sort, saying something thoughtless. "A wide, deep, _passionate_ lollipop," I corrected quickly, and she seemed satisfied.

            Pepper dialed a number on her phone and I steeled myself for the interrogation. It didn't sound like I'd done anything _too_ terrible, in public anyway, at least according to the print-outs and faxes Pepper spread before me. It was kind of funny the way different sources took the same basic facts and spun them however they wanted. Funny, anyway, when it happened to someone else.

            "G-d, look at this one," I said with disgust to both Pepper and the PR person on the phone. " 'Drunken Weapons Billionaire Fondles Miserable Assistant.' " Granted, they were running one of the pictures where I had my hand up Pepper's skirt, by accident I assure you. "This story is utter c—p! It's completely false."

            " _Well, we can go with that_ ," Debbie agreed, though I felt she was merely humoring me. " _Which part should I correct when talking to the press?_ "

            "Pepper wasn't miserable at all!" I sputtered.

            I got the impression Debbie was rolling her eyes on the other end of the line. But hey, that was why she got the big bucks, for dealing with _me_.

* * *


End file.
